


honey, there is no right way

by transiock



Series: if you love me, if you love me [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Secret Relationship, Super Soldier Serum, Wartime Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transiock/pseuds/transiock
Summary: While Bucky is deployed, letters become a lifeline for Steve, become the only way to have Bucky with him. But, now Bucky's coming home.A little canon divergence. WWII Stevebucky trying to balance their relationship.





	honey, there is no right way

 

The letter arrives on the first of March. The envelope is dark brown, stamps crowding the front, and addresses scrawled long and loose. Steve is almost scared it’ll disintegrate in his hands, so he holds it with care, barely touching the outside.

 

He carries it inside like it’s a bomb. He sits down at the dining table (pine with matching but cushioned chairs) and opens it slowly with one finger. All the paper is folded together in one stack, blue ink in the same familiar handwriting as on the front of the envelope in loops and lines across thin paper. Steve’s fingerprints feel too harsh.

 

Steve’s eye catches on his name that’s written long and delicate, but the rest of the letter is as messy as he expected it to be. He ruffles through the many papers to absorb as much of the moment as he could while the shining adrenaline is still coursing through him. He gets back to the first page and pauses, realizing he now has to actually read the damn thing. A completely different type of adrenaline sparks through him.

 

At the very top of the page is a date, February 21st, and then his name. Steve spends a good amount of time staring at how it curves and loops, how the hand that formed it seemed to do so carefully. Lovingly pops into Steve’s head as a way to describe it, and he reflexively shakes it out. His head isn’t in the right spot for that yet, for admitting something like that. And it’s just a name. It’s too small to admit any of that to.

 

 _I hope this reaches you well_ , the letter begins, and Steve can hear Bucky’s voice in his head, _It’s been a bit rainy here, which is more of a downer than you’d think. The clouds overhead seem to mean something darker than rain. One of the guys said that feeling is a side-effect of being out here for so long. Everything is an omen._

 

_Wilson and I had a close call yesterday. He’s doing better now, and I’m fine, really, but while I was getting him back to camp, I kept thinking about all the times you got into a fight when we were kids and I had to carry you on my back. All I wished for was that you’d be okay. Every time I had to finish a fight for you, my mind was blank except for you._

_I don’t really have a moral for that, sorry. I heard one of the guys read a letter he got from his wife, and at the end, she had this whole epic poem about how their hearts were far apart in distance, but not in spirit, and how they would be reunited, and the stars would align— and it was wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not exactly a poet. I’ll leave that to you, pal._

_Oh, and I heard through the grapevine that you got accepted to some program they set up. I don’t really know all that much about it other than it being some kind of experiment. I hope that doesn’t mean turning you into a frog or something. And they better take care of you. You tell them I’ll send an army of my own, yeah?_

 

Bucky goes on to give an update about his friends and colleagues, rambling about some interpersonal drama between two of them. The further Steve got in the letter, the more he felt like Bucky was writing for the sake of it, writing because he knew Steve would enjoy and cherish every single word he got. It makes Steve giggle himself stupid.

 

A piece of his heart blooms at the sight of Bucky tapping a pen on a desk thinking of anything else he could write about to keep Steve entertained, and that piece opens up an array of feelings Steve hadn’t let himself look at since the last letter he got. It was too dangerous to do at any other time, and if he locked it away, then there was no risk. There was no danger of anyone finding anything out if acted like there was nothing to find out.

 

He reaches the end of the letter, and he almost has to close his eyes from the everything of it all.

 

_I’ll be home soon. A few more weeks and they’ll let me take a two week R &R because I’ve done so well, I guess. I haven’t told anyone else yet because I know it’ll just remind them of the fact that they can’t go home, and I would hate to be that guy. It’ll break out at some point regardless._

 

_Anyway, my point is— I’ll be there soon. The 9th of March. I honestly cannot wait._

_See you soon, Stevie,_

_Bucky Barnes._

 

Steve stares at the last couple of lines for a long moment trying to process what exactly Bucky said. In four days he would be here with Steve. It doesn't really give him much time to prepare, but it’s also far too long.

 

His next thought is to his schedule. He has evaluations almost all days of the week,  has a place to be every Monday for dosing. And speaking of the experiment, Steve looks different than when Bucky left. Every morning when he looks in the mirror, he’s just a little taller, just a little more muscular. It’s like all his childhood wishes are catching up with him. That thought makes him laugh to himself, thinking of 11-year-old Bucky wishing for the same thing.

 

Despite that, a small pang of anxiety hits his chest. If Bucky’s protectiveness goes back that far, what will happen when he doesn’t need it anymore, when Steve can protect himself? A slightly more silly worry of Bucky not even recognizing Steve pops into his head. Images of Bucky walking up to what he sees as a complete stranger, Bucky being confused to the point of not even talking to Steve, etc. swim in Steve’s head.

 

He doesn’t have time to explain everything to Bucky, a letter would never reach him in time. Heavy regret settles in him as he wishes he could go back and tell Bucky every detail. Sure, he could’ve been killed or jailed the moment he was found out, but that wasn’t a risk they weren’t already taking.

 

They had been writing letters since Bucky first got deployed, which meant that they had to go from hiding when in public and being open when in private to suddenly having their words pass through the hands of others, which meant that they could get in a lofty amount of trouble if they talked anywhere close to how they normally did behind closed doors.

 

Behind closed doors, Bucky was affectionate as he was able to be. He left kisses on Steve’s cheek, held his hand whenever he was in range, said words like _honey, baby, darling_ , and spoke to Steve like he was a miracle he couldn’t comprehend. That all changed when someone was in the room.

 

Bucky was still close, still cracked jokes, still gave Steve warm smiles and soft eyes, but his vocabulary of endearments was ash. His kisses were nowhere to be found. His hands stayed in his pockets or lap, and when he did make contact with Steve, it was a friendly pat on the shoulder or back. He also talked about girls a lot more. A lady would pass by, Bucky’s friends would make obnoxious comments like they were a native language, and Bucky would join in like he was the same as them.

 

Steve didn’t like going out with Bucky and his friends very much. He could never call after a woman in the same way without it sounding awkward and forced. He could never blend in the way Bucky could.

 

“It’s only ‘cause I already have a disguise,” he told Steve later that night while they were laying on Bucky’s couch cushions, “I can pull off ‘sleaze’ because everyone already thinks I am one.”

 

“I don’t,” Steve said, tucked between Bucky’s chest and arms.

 

“Yeah, but you don’t count, darling.”

 

Steve stopped going out with Bucky and his friends after that. He didn’t want Bucky’s reputation. He didn’t want Bucky’s disguise. He just wanted the Bucky he knew. He wanted the Bucky that woke him up by kissing his stomach, the Bucky that sang lullabies after nightmares, the Bucky that wrapped his arms around Steve when he was cooking. He wanted him soft, and sweet, and honest. And being around anything else only made him feel like shit.

 

When the letters started coming in, Bucky took up the same voice he had around his friends, which, as aforementioned, made Steve feel like complete and utter shit. It took a long time, and some light nudging from Steve, for Bucky to find a voice he was comfortable with that wasn’t a total dick, but once he had it, the letters were pure gold. Steve saved every single one in a trunk he hid under his bed.

 

When he was moving to the issued apartment, he stuffed clothes and other belongings in the same trunk and moved it all together. The trunk stayed under his new bed, and every letter that got redirected to him from his old apartment, after it was thoroughly read, was placed with the others. Sometimes if Bucky’s letters were slower than usual, he would flip through the old envelopes and read his favorite ones over again. When Bucky wrote about the snow in a forest he walked through and how his socks were soaked, but he didn’t even care because the snow was falling in slow motion. When Bucky wrote about how the books here reminded him of when they went to old bookshops to find the oldest copy in the store. When Bucky wished he could send Steve the sunsets for him to paint.

 

For so long, that’s how Bucky existed. An unspoken wish for Steve to be by his side expressed in describing every detail he could. The idea of him being more than that, him going back to flesh and bone, almost overpowers Steve, almost slows down time

 

But the ninth of March rolls by terribly quickly. Steve wakes up with his stomach in knots. It’s not that he only wants Bucky at a distance— he knows that once Buck is here, he’ll never want him to leave— but rather that it’s hard to change from what you know. Not only is Steve now used to Bucky only existing once every two or so weeks in the eggshell words he sends to Steve, but Bucky also has to be used to Steve existing that way. And also existing how he was before the serum.

 

After coffee, instead of trying to force something into his stomach, he makes his way to the train station where Bucky’s supposed to be. He takes a seat on a wooden bench by the tracks and keeps his hands still in his lap. The whistle comes sooner than he’s prepared for, and he jumps to his feet, his hands awkwardly by his side, then fumbling together, then back down by his side.

 

The train rolls up, gradually slowing down, its wheels moving in perfect, calibrating harmony as it comes to a stop. Steve looks in all the windows to try and spot Bucky, but everyone has already started moving and it was hard to recognize a single face in the bustle.

 

Steve cranes his neck by reflex, but it doesn’t do too much. He moves his weight from foot to foot, his mind focused on trying to recognize those oh-so-familiar features when he hears whispering next to him. A short, middle-aged woman has her hand half covering her mouth as she looks at Steve and whispers to a man next to her. He tries to ignore it, but as soon as she starts whispering, so do a dozen others around her.

 

“Isn’t he the one from the papers?”

 

“The super soldier—”

 

“I read about him. That has to be—”

 

Steve spots Bucky in the crowd, fully uniformed with a trunk in hand. Surprise lights up Bucky’s face the moment he sees him, but Steve pays that no mind, instead grabbing his hand and leading him out of the station, the whispers following him all the while.

 

He gets in the first cab that stops for them, pushing in Bucky and his trunk and immediately telling the driver where he’s been staying. Bucky’s in a state of confusion, his hand still halfway reaching for his trunk. He opens his mouth and keeps it open without making a sound.

 

“Sorry,” Steve says, looking down, his knees a touch too high to be comfortable, and his elbows resting on his thighs, “There’s, um, a lot going on.”

 

“Yeah, I— I can see that. You’re— I mean, do they have you on a workout thing or, like—? What—?”

 

“You know that experiment you were talking about?”

 

“I didn’t think—”

 

“It’s a serum. They give it in doses. Apparently the last guy— He got everything at once, and he…” Steve shakes his head, “I go in weekly. Mondays. Tomorrow.”

 

“Well, I’m going with you,” Bucky states, his back straightening.

 

Steve cocks his head, fighting a small smile, “Are you now?”

 

“Yeah, of course. They’re injecting my buddy with some super-drug, and I want to see it.”

 

Steve grins wide, “Still protective as ever.”

 

“Always, pal. Don’t know any other way to be.”

 

The cab stops and Bucky is the first out. Steve pays the driver and Joins Bucky standing in front of his apartment.

 

“It’s nice,” Bucky says, “You live here for free?”

 

Steve shrugs, “Mostly.”

 

They go in and take the elevator to Steve’s apartment. The front door faces the quaint dining room that’s main focus is the pine table. Off to the side is the kitchen with stark white appliances taking up most of the available room (A coffee machine, toaster oven, refrigerator, small stove) and a mint green backsplash. The floors in both rooms are honey-colored wood that extends to the living room that they’re standing in.

 

The couch is a darker shade of green and sits on a white rug. A fireplace sits to the side of the door and on either side are bookshelves filled to the brim. A window streams light into the crowded room through sheer curtains and just a bit farther is a tall, thin lamp with a wide, white shade beside the couch.

 

Behind the lamp and the couch is the opening of a short hallway. There are three doors. The one closest is the bathroom, neat and small with green tile on the walls and white tile on the floor, a shining white bathtub, and a sink with an overhead cupboard as part of the mirror. The next door is a closet that’s a bit sparse since only Steve lived there, and he did have much to store.

 

The next door leads to the bedroom. Steve leads Bucky inside and lets him set his trunk on a chair beside the door. Next to that is a dark wood dresser, worn and scratched but perfectly functional. The bed is twin sized, dressed in blue checkered cover and is about as long as the room itself. The middle of the room is taken up by a small, round, knit rug and the two of them.

 

“Thought it would be a bit bigger.”

 

“Definitely felt a bit bigger when I first moved in,” Steve cracks.

 

Bucky laughs, and Steve relaxes for what feels like the first time since he woke up. He and Bucky are how they always are.

 

They lay on the living room floor, couch cushions spread out like a mattress, huddling under one blanket while the fireplace roars away next to them. They’ve spent so many nights like this as kids, and the memories of them float above their heads as an unspoken bond.

 

Bucky lays his hand casually on Steve’s leg, and Steve’s hand is casually on Bucky’s arm. They’re close, and warm, and comfortable, and there’s nothing outside of those walls. The war is no longer raging, the appointment tomorrow no longer matters. Everything that could possibly be important is tucked away between them.

 

Steve’s voice is quiet when he speaks.

 

“Your letter was longer than usual.”

 

“It got through? That’s a miracle.”

 

Steve smiles, “Worried it was too obvious?”

 

“Worried I talked too much about what was going on. They try to not let much out.”

 

“Guess they don’t think I’m a German spy.”

 

Bucky laughs something quiet, “Makes sense. They probably know about your whole experimental thing.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. The people at the train seemed to know about it, so I would be surprised if the people responsible for knowing who has what information didn’t know.”

 

Steve nods and tries to not feel weirded out by so many people knowing who he is. He’s just a kid from Brooklyn, not some alien super-soldier, but that’s hard to get across in a newspaper, much less a briefing. Everyone who knows about him, excluding Bucky, knows him so detached from who he is. That’s probably for the better, he thinks, they can project whatever hero they need onto him.

 

“You’re famous,” Bucky whispers, mock-amazed.

 

Steve laughs and pushes his nose into Bucky’s neck, “How’s it feel to be my sidekick?”

 

“Sidekick? As if you could be who you are without me.”

 

Steve smiles, closed-mouth and warm. He closes his eyes and feels Bucky press a kiss to the top of his head. It settles Steve further, pushes his heart into its rightful place, beating hard and steady. The morning and all it’s going to hold aren’t far off, but Steve and Bucky don’t worry about it. Everything they need is right here.

  


**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! feel free to leave kudos + comments.


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